


Coming To Terms

by cordeliadelayne



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Case Fic, Drama, F/M, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Murder Mystery, Team as Family, Thomas Nightingale & Beverley Brook friendship, Thomas Nightingale & Peter Grant friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 13:08:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10438401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordeliadelayne/pseuds/cordeliadelayne
Summary: Peter might have a lot on his mind, what with frequent trips to the hospital and interfering families but at least he can always rely on a visit to the morgue to stop him from getting too distracted.





	

I've seen a lot of weird things since becoming an apprentice, but none have ever matched up to walking in to Nightingale's hospital room and finding Beverley brushing a lock of hair from his forehead.

She stiffened in her seat and slowly sat back down once she heard me open the door but didn't look at me. I carefully laid down a newspaper and a punnet of grapes on the bedside table then sat down on the other side of the bed to Beverley. Only then did she look at me, a quick, annoyed flash of her eyes, as if daring me to say something.

“How's he doing?” I asked.

“Fine. Just sleeping now,” she said. She huffed a sigh as I continued to say nothing.

“I didn't say a word,” I replied, struggling to keep my expression neutral. It's not like there hasn't been plenty of evidence that they get on pretty well, considering who and what they both are, and believe me I've wondered in vain what they say about me when I'm not in the room, but, well, there was something nice about actually seeing it instead of just guessing at it.

“Dr Walid said he has to stay in overnight, in case pneumonia develops. Said he shouldn't be jumping in rivers.”

“It's not like he had a choice,” I replied. Beverley knew that too, so she didn't comment.

It had all started out with the most boring of stakeouts. Me and Sahra in one car, Nightingale and David Carey in another. Our suspect, who it turns out had the less than charming habit of putting hidden cameras in the changing rooms of his local M&S as well as using some frankly embarrassingly bad magic to rob several thousand pounds worth of jewellery from a pawnbrokers, had got into a drunken fight with his flatmate and tried to push him into the Thames.

Nightingale and Carey had been closer and just when it looked like the suspect's flatmate was going to regain his footing, over he went. The suspect, Bill Richmond, had run off with Carey in pursuit while Nightingale had gone for the flatmate.

I saw Nightingale disappear under the water but Richmond had magic, no matter how badly trained he was, and I couldn't leave Carey to deal with him on his own. So as Sahra called for an ambulance and headed towards the river I hotfooted it after Carey. I finally caught up with them in a quiet side street where Richmond was trying to throw a fireball at Carey but like my own early attempts it was pretty pathetic to witness.

It only took a demonstration of what a really strong hot werelight looked like before he gave up; though not before calling me some choice names I haven't heard since school and trying to spit in my face.

By the time we got him settled in the back of our car Nightingale and the flatmate were out, but drenched, and even Nightingale saw the sense in not complaining as he was wrapped in a blanket and taken away in an ambulance for a full check-up. Leaving me to deal with the clean-up.

This was the first time I'd laid eyes on him since then; I hadn't even known Beverley had heard about what had happened, but then of course word would have passed down the riverine grapevine.

“Thanks,” I said.

Beverley looked up at me, smiled and shrugged. “I knew you wouldn't be finished for ages,” she said. “Besides, he'd be here if it was you. Or me.”

“Yeah,” I whispered. Hesitatingly, because this wasn't really something we did, Nightingale and me, I put my hand on his, just to reassure myself that it was warm and full of life, even though I could see he was just in a deep sleep, his breathing soft and even.

I took my hand away and saw Beverley roll her eyes but pretended not to.

“No point staying here then,” I said, after a moment.

“Do you need to be back at the Folly?” she asked.

“Molly's got it under control,” I said, because I really wanted to be with Beverley right then, and we still hadn't worked out how to get her into the Folly proper. Nightingale didn't think I knew he was secretly working on it. Or if he did he was pretending that he didn't know I know. (I was trying not to make him feel pressured about it and he was trying not to get my hopes up).

“Come on then,” she said. “I'll drive.” She held out her hands for the keys.

“Ha, no chance,” I replied. “He doesn't like you that much.”

Beverley pulled a face but after Nightingale had had cause to witness Beverley's approach to the laws of the road he'd banned her from getting behind the wheel of the Jag for life.

“Fine. But you're cooking.”

I refrained from mentioning that I always did the cooking. Despite appearances to the contrary, I don't actually have a death wish.

* * * * *

Later that night, when we were breathless and sticky and aching in some very inventive places I closed my eyes and Beverley started playing with my hair. It would need cutting soon but Beverley was the only person I didn't mind doing this, I never had.

“He'll be fine,” she said into the shell of my ear.

“I didn't say otherwise,” I replied.

“He wouldn't want you to worry. Besides, Dr Walid's probably only keeping him in as punishment for jumping in the river in the first place.”

I smiled against Beverley's skin and nipped at her neck. “That does sound like him.”

“Nightingale wouldn't want you losing sleep over him, you know.”

“I know,” I said.

“But you're going to anyway,” Beverley said, settling against my chest, her arm loose over my waist. I put my arm around her and pulled her closer because, as usual, she was right.

* * * * *

Breakfast was porridge and slightly burned toast after I lost concentration reading over one of Beverley's essays on water irrigation she'd left on the kitchen table.

“This is good,” I said, as she scraped black bits of toast into the sink.

“I was thinking of moving the intro into the third paragraph and making that the introduction instead,” she said, moving around me for the butter.

“Yeah, that'll work,” I agreed. “Second page is a little repetitive,” I added carefully.

Beverley moved to read over my shoulder. “Ugh, you're right. How about...” And then she sat down and began scribbling a few ideas into and around the margins. I watched her for a few seconds, taking in the way the sunlight struggling to filter through the windows made her glow, and then planted a kiss on her cheek.

“Dinner later?”

“Might have a study group thing at the library. I'll know by lunch.”

“Okay, see you later.”

“Say hi to Nightingale,” she said, looking up briefly before getting back to her work.

“I will.”

* * * * *

“Bev says hi,” I told Nightingale, walking into his room with a fresh newspaper and a change of clothes for him.

He was already sat up in bed finishing off the crossword from the paper I'd bought yesterday. “I thought I heard her last night,” he said, a little bemused.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” He eagerly reached for the bag of clothes as I handed it over. “Abdul has given me the all clear.”

“You had breakfast yet?”

“I've had the best the NHS has to offer,” he replied with an understandable grimace.

“I'll be back in ten,” I told him with a grin and went off to locate the nearest Costa. By the time I came back with a cappuccino and bacon sandwich for him and a macchiato for me he was dressed and Dr Walid was giving him a lecture, the gist of which seemed to be he had an apprentice for a reason.

“Apprentices aren't supposed to be cannon fodder,” Nightingale said with a soft smile in my direction as I mock glared at Dr Walid.

“Glad to hear it,” I said.

“Thank you,” Nightingale said as I handed over the coffee and sandwich. Dr Walid looked expectantly at the other coffee and I handed it over too. Who needs caffeine anyway?

* * * * *

Our first stop was the pawnbrokers, to let Mr Barclay know that we had the suspect in custody. He was grateful and then tried to sell Nightingale some “antiques” that were less than a hundred years old; I'd had to rescue him by pretending we'd been called back to the nick.

“Fifty two years old does not constitute an antique,” he said to me as we headed back to the car.

I tried not to smile. “No, sir.”

He glanced at me suspiciously but I could see the twitch of his lips as he shook his head, no doubt in despair about the youth of today.

I slowed as we passed a particular shop front and Nightingale, because he pays attention a lot better than I do, said, “I'll meet you at the car shall I?”

And the thing was I was going to say yes, that I wouldn't be a minute and he wouldn't ask now or later, wouldn't bring it up again if I didn't but, well, suddenly a second opinion couldn't hurt.

“Actually, could you come in with me?”

I knew I'd made the right decision when Nightingale tried to hide how pleased he was to be asked. “Of course.”

We stepped into the jeweller's and I went over to the case on the far side of the room. Nightingale followed and looked down at the rings.

“I presume that one,” he said, pointing directly at the exact ring I'd picked out. It wasn't an ordinary engagement ring, no stone or anything like that but a plain silver band with curls of green and blue around it which I knew looked like water lapping at the shore when the light hit it right, from when I'd come in to look at it the first time. It just screamed of Beverley and I realised that it wasn't really the ring I was worried that Nightingale might not approve of.

“I was going to put down a deposit on it today,” I said, because we could both see the price tag and what with more of Dad's expenses to deal with, it hadn't exactly been a great few months, but I didn't want to lose it.

I could almost hear him think about offering to help and then not, which saved us both an embarrassing episode.

“I can wait in the car if you'd rather,” he said.

“No, I'll just...”

The shop assistant I'd spoken to last time came over. “So is this your young man, then?” she said to me, indicating Nightingale.

“Sadly, no,” Nightingale replied, amused. “I'm afraid Peter's interests lie elsewhere.”

I shot him an exasperated look before pulling out my wallet. “I'd like to put down a deposit.”

“Shame,” she said, moving to get the ring out of the case. “You two make a lovely couple.”

* * * * *

“You two make a lovely couple,” my dad said, startling me from my daydream.

Beverley had decided to throw a dinner party which included my parents, Nightingale and god help us Lady Ty.

“Thanks,” I said, a little awkwardly. He patted my arm and then drifted off to talk to my mum.

Nightingale was helping Beverley with the dessert – strawberry cheesecake – and I was hoping to go over and help when Lady Ty waylaid me.

“Peter,” she said. “This is pleasant.”

“It was good of you to come,” I said, because I wasn't brought up in a barn.

“I wouldn't dream of missing an opportunity to talk to your father,” she said. Amazing how quickly a good mood can vanish when Lady Ty's involved.

“Didn't know you were a jazz fan,” I said.

“No, he doesn't seem all that interested in your life, does he?” she observed. “Your mother, on the other hand, had some very interesting questions.”

By now Mum had cornered Nightingale and I could see the exact moment she mentioned Lady Ty's name – he's got a tell, a slight twitch of his shoulders, like a headache is about to form at the base of his skull. They both glanced over to where Lady Ty was standing next to me and while Mum looked annoyed Nightingale looked about as furious as he was going to in polite company.

“What the hell did you say to her?” I asked, quietly, trying to keep my expression less murderous than I felt.

“We were merely discussing the nature of immortality,” she said.

“You told her about Nightingale?”

She scoffed. “It's not like she hadn't realised something was off about him.”

“There's the same amount of “off” about him as there is you,” I pointed out. “And Bev.”

“I think it's best if all interested parties are on the same page, don't you?”

“It wasn't your bloody decision to make,” Bev said, having snuck up behind me so quietly I hadn't noticed; some days she can put Sahra to shame in the ninja stakes. “Is it any wonder your own daughter won't confide in you?”

Lady Ty reeled back as if she'd been hit before launching into a counter attack. “I'm just trying to make sure you both know what you're getting into. Since you clearly haven't discussed any of my concerns”

“I know all about your little chat with Peter, thank you,” Beverley said. “And it still remains none of your bloody business.”

“And what about the Nightingale?” she asked, pointing over to where he was still standing with my mother.

“It's none of his bloody business either,” Beverley said, though with significantly less heat.

“There are agreements,” Lady Ty started to say before Nightingale moved forward and interrupted her.

“Thank you for a lovely meal, Beverley, but I have an early start in the morning. Cecilia, perhaps I could walk you to your car?”

Lady Ty looked at Nightingale, and then to both of my parents before looking at me and Beverley. “It's only because I care,” she said again.

“I know that,” Beverley said. “But I still want you to leave.”

* * * * *

I knew it was too much to expect my parents to leave and so Bev and I spent the next two hours explaining that we didn't know why Nightingale was ageing backwards and that yes, Beverley was probably going to outlive me.

I'd sort of had this conversation with Beverley already, after Lady Ty's talk with me, so I knew we were both on the same page. That must have been obvious to Mum too, who was of course doing all the talking, because eventually she looked at us both, sitting side by side on the sofa and said, “I didn't listen to my family either, and we turned out all right.”

My dad put his arm round her waist and kissed her on the cheek. “More than all right,” he said.

* * * * *

“Let's never do that again,” Beverley said, sinking into the bed next to me with a groan.

I slipped under the covers next to her and pulled her close. “Agreed. Times one hundred.”

She shifted and kissed me, gasping as I moved my hands along her waist and between her legs. Then she moved and lowered herself down on me and I pulled her close, happy to think about nothing except the way her body fits so well with mine.

* * * * *

Dr Walid seems to think that Nightingale and I deliberately take it in turns to get admitted to the hospital. I think he's only half joking.

And I only knew this because he said as much to Beverley as she sat by my hospital bed. I'd got a bump on the head courtesy of some broken guttering our latest suspect had decided to beat me with when me and Sahra went to arrest him. Luckily for me she managed to get him into handcuffs before he decided to add murder of a police officer to a long line of petty offences.

My head and shoulders were killing me, though there was a soft buzz in the back of my brain so I must have had some of the good drugs at some point. I could feel Beverley holding my hand but otherwise it felt a bit like I was floating on a cloud.

I must have drifted to sleep because the next minute I knew I could hear Beverley and Nightingale softly talking over me.

“...and apologised,” he was saying.

“Really? Have you checked the weather for flying pigs?”

Nightingale chucked. “Certainly a date I will make sure to write in my diary.”

“It's being older,” Beverley said. “She thinks she's done it all and can stop us from making her mistakes.”

“Well, as someone older still,” Nightingale said, and I could just picture his expression as he did, “I know that your mistakes may be someone else's greatest triumph.”

“He's bought a ring, hasn't he?” she asked, suddenly, and it was all I could do not to twitch.

“Peter doesn't confide in me about his private life,” Nightingale said, which Beverley knew was not an answer as much as I did.

“Doesn't he?” she asked.

“No,” Nightingale said, and he didn't sound sad or angry, just matter of fact. “That's what he has you for.”

“And who do you have?” she asked, softly.

“I don't have a private life,” he replied, easily. “Makes it much less complicated.”

I don't know what they would have said next, because one of the nurses came in to check on me and I couldn't feign sleep any longer.

* * * * *

I was allowed home, under strict instructions that I get plenty of rest. Beverley came to pick me up and I hesitated when she asked me if I wanted to go back to the Folly.

“I could set you up in the coach house?” she suggested.

“You wouldn't mind?”

“Course not. Nightingale will be pleased to see you.”

“We see each other all the time.”

Beverley just shook her head and lurched the car out of the car park.

* * * * *

“Peter?” asked Nightingale, coming out of the house as Beverley parked somewhat haphazardly in the courtyard. “I wasn't expecting you back.”

“Home,” Beverley said. “You weren't expecting him home.”

Nightingale had a shuttered expression on his face which meant he knew what she meant and didn't want to show it. I, on the other hand, was still drugged and confused.

“He never calls the Folly your home any more,” she explained. “Neither do you.”

“It's not important,” Nightingale said, dismissing everything he's ever told me about the importance of names.

“You're both idiots,” Beverley said. “Help me get him into the coach house.”

Nightingale looked like he might argue and then offered me his arm, even though I didn't really need it. I let him help me upstairs anyway and Beverley fussed around me getting me settled on the couch.

Molly appeared shortly after with a pot of tea and mugs for all for us, as well as a Victoria sponge.

Beverley sat next to me while Nightingale stood awkwardly to one side. Molly poured us all a cup of tea and then disappeared; Nightingale looked like he very much wanted to join her.

Beverley plonked a tea cup on the table and pushed it towards him. Tea sloshed over the side of the cup and onto the plate. Nightingale slowly sat down next to me.

“Thank you,” he said.

Beverley looked expectantly at me while I tried not to notice. Unfortunately when she wants, Beverley can be as patient as Nightingale and I folded like a cheap suit before she had to say anything.

“So,” I began, “Beverley and I have been talking. About what Ty said.”

“All right,” Nightingale said, slowly taking a sip of tea.

“I don't want Peter to go into the water,” Beverley said. She put her hand on my leg. “Not yet, anyway. Maybe, after he's finished his apprenticeship – much, much longer after that,” she added quickly, “we might think about it. But that's not something either of us needs right now.”

“We just don't know how to get Lady Ty off our backs,” I said. “Mama Thames has already told us she'll trust our judgement on this. Well, Bev's judgement.”

“You've discussed this with her already?” Nightingale asked, keeping any emotion out of his voice.

“We were summoned this morning, before we came here,” Beverley said. “Ty's already spitting feathers.”

“Then it seems to me you only have one choice,” Nightingale said. He put down his tea and turned towards his both.

“We do?” I asked.

Nightingale shrugged. “Tell her I forbade it and that's the end of the matter.”

“We can't do that,” I said, looking at Beverley. She didn't look quite so bothered as me though.

“It would hardly be the first time Lady Ty has believed me guilty of interfering in River business. Let her think this is the line I've decided that can't be crossed and I can't be persuaded otherwise.”

“You know she'll bring it up every time you see her,” Beverley said.

“She can hardly dislike me any more than she already does,” Nightingale pointed out. “And if it takes the pressure off the two of you...”

“You'd really do that for us?” I asked.

“Of course.”

I didn't know what to say. We all knew Ty can be like a dog with a bone when she sets her mind to something; the heat might be off us but she'd never forgive Nightingale for interfering as long as they both lived. Which could be a very long time indeed.

Thank you didn't really seem adequate enough, especially not when the painkillers Dr Walid had insisted I had to take before being discharged were starting to slowly seep away at my sentence forming skills.

“I don't think she'll believe you,” Beverley said.

“She doesn't have to believe it,” Nightingale said. “She just has to be unable to prove otherwise.”

“That places us in your debt,” Beverley said.

“No it doesn't,” Nightingale replied. “Peter's my apprentice. I have a duty to protect him _and_ his family.”

Beverley laced her fingers with mine and Nightingale poured us more tea.

* * * * *

Beverley was pouring tea for Nightingale when I arrived at her house. They had a bunch of books spread around them, some I recognised as being from the Folly and quite a few I thought looked like library books.

“You two look busy,” I said, pressing a kiss to Beverley's cheek.

“I take it the body wasn't one of ours?” Nightingale said, closing the open books.

“You take it correctly,” I replied, trying to read the titles upside down. “Just a PC getting a bit too excitable about some tattoos.”

Ever since our unit had got involved with the more high profile cases we'd been inundated with calls from police officers who thought anything slightly “weird” fell into our remit. Since London was by definition full of weird, the lowliest rung on the Folly's operational ladder i.e. me, spent a lot of time looking at dead bodies that had nothing to do with magic.

“I take it you're not going to tell me what you're up to?” I asked as Beverley swept the books into a small backpack I recognised as my old school bag. Wondering at what point my mum had passed that on to Beverley was distracting enough for me to not notice the title of the last book as Beverley slid the bag over to Nightingale.

“You take it correctly,” Nightingale said with a sly smile.

“Introducing you two was the worst thing the universe has ever done,” I said, before helping myself to the tea.

Beverley snorted. “The same could be said about you two. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's what Ty says every time she's in the same room as the pair of you.”

“I don't doubt it,” Nightingale said, slowly standing up. “I should get going, I'm meeting Abdul for dinner.” He hefted my old bag onto his shoulder and Beverly led him to the door and whispered something in his ear. “How are you getting on with your translation?” he asked me, just as Beverley opened the door.

“Sitting on the table in the reading room, ready to be marked, unless Molly's tidied it away already.”

“And the reading?”

“One more chapter to go,” I said.

“Test tomorrow at 10 then,” he said and I pretended to groan as he headed out towards the Jag.

“I thought Chinese,” Beverley said, pulling open a drawer and handing me the take away menu. I grabbed her by the waist as she moved by me and pulled her into a kiss that turned into her pulling at my belt and me lifting her up onto the kitchen counter and fucking her fast and hard, her fingers digging into my back.

We never did get around to dinner that night.

* * * * *

“Do you think he's lonely?” Beverley asked me. We were sitting outside near her river in blue striped deckchairs that had seen better days and were more comfortable than they had any right to be. The moon was low in the sky and the city was just a soft buzz in the distance.

“Who?” I asked, eyes drifting closed.

“Nightingale.”

I opened my eyes and turned to face her. She didn't look like she was joking.

“Where's this come from?” I asked.

“He's been alone in the Folly with just Molly for company for years now. And then you moved in, and now you've practically moved out.”

“I haven't moved out,” I said, but it sounded like a poor excuse. It was just easier, what with Bev not being able to get in to the house proper, to spend time here. Easier for her too since she needed to be near her river which meant even if she could get inside the Folly she'd never want to be based there. And easy because Nightingale had made it easy, never once raising any qualms about it, even when he'd said, right at the beginning, that as his apprentice I needed to live at the Folly.

“Are you back with me, now?” she asked, and I flushed a little guiltily as I realised it wasn't the first time she'd asked.

“Sorry, yeah. So what do you want me to do, sign him up to Match.com?”

Beverley rolled her eyes at me, which was the least I deserved. “Do you even know if he has a preference?” she asked.

I opened my mouth to play dumb but her glare put paid to that pretty sharpish. “I've never asked. And he's never said.”

“There's nothing that's ever made you think, one way or the other?”

“I thought you weren't interested in his private life?” I asked, because this was very much skirting into the none of our business territory and Beverley knew that even more than I did.

Beverley kicked futilely at the grass with her bare feet. “Yes, I know. I just...Ugh, I've spent too long with Effra this week. She's the queen of matchmaking,” she explained. She stood up and shuddered. “Guess it's catching. I'm going for a swim, you want to come?”

“Tempting,” I said, my body registering the cold now more than it had when we first went outside, “but I think I'll pass.”

“Your loss,” she said, stripping off the remaining few items of her clothing and wiggling her hips as she walked, then dived into the river, the graceful arch of her back making me hard in seconds.

Definitely my loss.

* * * * *

Two days later and I was having breakfast at the Folly when the idea to just ask the question came to me. And kept worming its way into my head until I asked, apropos of nothing breakfast or work related, “Have you ever considered marriage?”

Nightingale slowly looked up from his plate of bacon and eggs as if I'd just asked him if he'd ever killed a man in cold blood.

“A little early in the day for this sort of conversation,” he said, after the silence had stretched on a little too long to be comfortable.

“Sorry, sorry, it's none of my business,” I started to say, words tripping over my tongue like they never had done in front of him before and then the phone rang and I thanked every deity I could think of that we had a case.

* * * * *

The _vestigia_ was faint, as it always is with bodies, but unmistakable. A woman crying, cigarette smoke, candles, the sharp, calculated flash of a knife.

Nightingale agreed with my assessment and looked carefully at the intricately patterned tattoo of a lion's head on the man's right bicep.

“Does this look like the same work as the body from last week?” he asked me.

“Could be,” I agreed. “I swear, there wasn't anything to indicate...”

“It's all right, Peter. Without any obvious signs I would have dismissed the first case as well.” He gave me a reassuring smile and then asked Dr Walid to bring out the other body so we could get a look at that.

Elliott Michaels, 34, dentist, with a tattoo of a wolf eating a pentagram on his left shoulder, and Benjamin Goldberg, 31, anaesthetist, with the aforementioned tattoo of a lion's head. I'm no tattoo expert, the whole idea of inking myself permanently never appealing, mostly because I could never imagine wanting to stare at the same thing, unchanging, for the rest of my life, but they looked like they could be the same artist to me.

Nightingale moved closer to Elliott's body and pressed his fingers along the edge of the pentagram, something I had had no intention of doing when I first saw the body. He pulled his fingers back quickly and then pressed his face so close he was almost kissing the corpse and I immediately regretted my third slice of bacon.

“What is it, Thomas?” Dr Walid asked.

“Peter, why don't you tell me what you can sense?” Nightingale suggested, stepping back and waiting expectingly for me to press my face where my face definitely didn't want to be pressed.

I tried to keep my sigh to myself but judging by Dr Walid's low throated chuckle I don't think I was very successful. The magic hit me like a brick and I would have stumbled backwards if Nightingale hadn't grabbed my elbow.

“How did he die?” Nightingale asked, keeping his hand lightly on my arm until I nodded that I was okay.

“Stabbed, same as Mr Goldberg. The tattoos are imbued with magic?”

“It appears so,” Nightingale nodded thoughtfully. “I do seem to remember a case, in the 30s...a practitioner was using magically enhanced tattoos to stalk their victims. I only heard about it second hand, I'll have to check the details back at the Folly.”

“While you do that I'll go to the crime scene and see what I can find out,” I said.

Nightingale nodded. “Take Sahra with you.”

* * * * *

The bodies had both been left, propped up, on the right hand pews of St Bride's Church, just off Fleet Street. At over 2,000 years old it's one of London's oldest churches, though the current building was designed by Christopher Wren in 1627. In that time it's survived not only the Great Fire and the Blitz but also being chiefly associated with that bastion of free speech, the British tabloid.

In 1703 Thomas Rich, a baker's apprentice, fell in love with the daughter of his employer and when she agreed to marry him decided to make her an extravagantly tiered wedding cake. St Bride's steeple was his inspiration, and thus the £10 billion a year wedding industry was well and truly launched.

It's a bright and airy Baroque church, clear windows favoured over stained glass with a high ceiling of white and gold and dark brown pews, many marked by names of journalists and broadcasters. There was a little stall to the left of the entrance selling guidebooks and postcards and that's where I found Sahra, talking to the bearded man who volunteered four days a week.

“I've never known anything like that,” he was saying. “We get the old homeless person from time to time, I always give them a cup of tea and a sandwich, but I've never had one of them die here before, let alone two.”

Sahra nodded to me as I approached. “Mr Greaves here was telling me how he found both bodies,” she explained. After introductions had been made I asked him if he'd seen them here before.

“I don't think so but my memory, not so good with faces any more,” he said.

We stepped away to talk while Mr Greaves carried on organising his postcards into neat little piles.

“I don't think the scenes going to tell us much,” Sahra said, “unless your Spider sense can pick up something?”

“Ha ha,” I said, but headed to where the bodies had been found, Sahra keeping an eye out for any inquisitive parishioners.

Stone keeps _vestigia_ a lot better than bodies and the same sight and smells I'd felt from the tattoos was definitely here.

“I'm pretty sure this is where they were killed,” I told Sahra.

“Back to the office to see what forensics have for us?” she suggested and I nodded. Seemed as good an idea as any.

* * * * *

I tried to check in with Nightingale on the way back to the nick but he wasn't picking up his mobile and I didn't have time to phone the Folly's main phone because DS Stephanopoulos was pulling us into her office.

“What I'm about to tell you doesn't go further than this room, understood?” was her opening gambit, and Sahra and I both attempted a near on perfect military at ease posture.

“Understood, boss,” we both said, almost in perfect sync. Sahra looked over at me as if to say we'd been spending way too much time together.

Stephanopoulos just looked bored. “I had a look at those tattoos.” She handed over a post-it with an address on it to Sahra. “The artist works out of there. The other half's used them before, I recognised the style,” she added. “And if _anybody_ else gets wind of that,” she said, looking directly at me, “you'll regret ever stepping foot in this office. Understood?”

“Of course, boss,” I said.

“I mean it. Not even Nightingale.”

I hesitated a fraction of a second, because I don't keep things from him if I can help it but before I could say anything Stephanopoulos was sighing and saying, “Fine, just no one else. Not even your girlfriend.”

I nodded quickly, that I could agree to; I don't share details of cases with Beverley unless I absolutely have to, and most of the time she's not really that interested anyway.

* * * * *

Forensics confirmed that both men were killed in the church and that someone, presumably the killer, had tried to clean up the blood with bleach, which, not being the sort of thing you find lying around in your average inner city church, meant that the killer had come prepared. And that they'd watched at least one episode of CSI.

David Carey had been running background checks and Sahra and I sat at her desk as she ran me through what we knew so far.

“You're going to love this,” Carey said, handing over a file he'd been working on. “Both our victims did a rotation together at King's College Hospital when they were students. As did our old friend Andrew Sheridan.”

Sahra and I looked at each other in surprise. Andrew Sheridan was the man Nightingale had pulled out of the Thames a few months ago.

“You're sure?” Sahra asked.

“Oh yeah. I spoke to one of his old tutors. He dropped out after failing his first year exams but they already had some concerns about his attitude towards patients. Specifically the female ones.”

“Sounds like a charmer,” I said.

“Was there anything to suggest he was a practitioner like his flatmate?”

“No,” I said slowly. There had been books, of course, but all in Richmond's room, nothing in the shared areas, nothing to indicate that Sheridan was anything but a man pissed off with his flatmate for bringing the police to his door.

“Probably time for a chat, then,” Carey suggested.

* * * * *

I finally got hold of Nightingale who told me he'd found some useful information in some old case reports, which was possibly a first, and that he'd meet us there. Carey filled in Stephanopoulos while Sahra and I headed out in her car.

Richmond and Sheridan's flat was a two bed in a three storey Victorian house, with a family of Brazilians living in the basement. The last time I'd inspected the place Sheridan had fallen over himself to rat out his flatmate. Now, there was no answer.

“I'll go round the back,” Sahra said. I nodded absently and stepped back so I could look up at the windows. Not so much as a curtain twitched.

“Peter!” Sahra shouted and I ran down the side alley between the houses to get to the clump of concrete at the back the landlord had probably described as a low maintenance garden. The problem was obvious – the back door was hanging off its hinges and I could already sense the _vestigia._ Judging by Sahra's expression, she could too.

“We could wait for Nightingale?” Sahra suggested.

“He might be hurt,” I said. We looked at each other, readied our batons and torches, and moved inside.

I went first, the idea being that a) if weird bollocks was about to come flying at us I'd be able to deal with it and b) if weird bollocks was about to come flying at us it'd hit me first and Sahra could make a dignified retreat for back-up, aka Nightingale.

Your average criminal isn't a mastermind by any stretch of the imagination so it's pretty rare for there to be actual booby traps set up for the normal run of the mill copper when they enter a property; luckily Sahra and I aren't your run of the mill coppers so I had to be on the lookout for both demon traps, fireballs and crazed house holders armed with knives.

We proceeded carefully checking behind doors and alcoves as we went until I found it, hidden on the way to the kitchen. One brand new looking demon trap.

“We definitely need Nightingale,” I said.

And just like that there was knock on the door and I could see through the frosted glass a familiar looking DCI.

“Round the back, sir!” I called out and saw the shadow disappear quickly.

* * * * *

While Nightingale dealt with the demon trap and checked the building for anything else potentially deadly Sahra went off to buy the teas and I stayed on guard outside in the garden. Sahra had called it in to Stephanopoulos who was sending someone round to check out St Bride's and David Carey was still running checks on the tattoo parlour, which left me twiddling my thumbs until Nightingale shouted that it was all clear.

By the time Nightingale was done Sahra had tea for us and forensics had rocked up, swarming over the place like a colony of ants and we were figuratively, and literally, pushed to one side.

“Any word from Carey?” Nightingale asked Sahra as we all leaned against the Jag and watched which neighbour's came out to see what was going on, which ones twitched at their curtains and which ones pretended that nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

“Answerphone says the owner of the Ace of Spades tattoo parlour is on holiday until tomorrow. He's sent a uniform round but it's all locked up. He's running checks on her now, but so far nothing suspicious.”

“I don't think we have enough probable cause to look around her shop,” Nightingale said. “Her address?”

“No sign of her there. She asked her neighbour to look after her cat.” Sahra shrugged. “Holiday story looks legit.”

“I presume all the usual alerts to hospitals and clinics have gone out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nothing we can do till tomorrow then,” he said. “The pub round the corner does excellent pie and mash, if you're both hungry?”

* * * * *

As usual Nightingale was right about the pie and mash. I don't know whether it's just because he's been around the block enough times to have tried all these places more than once or if he's been to these places because his mysterious sources insist on him buying them dinner. He still mentions them now and again but has never introduced me to them. It's starting to become a thing.

Sahra joined us for a coke but then got a better offer and left us to it. I've been dining out with him since the beginning so it doesn't even register as odd these days, though I don't think I'll ever get comfortable enough to have a drink with any other senior officer on the regular, but Sahra had stopped even blinking at being asked to join us, which shouldn't make a difference really, but it did.

We stuck to half pints during the meal, neither of us much for serious drinking especially when we were pretty much on duty all the time, even when we weren't.

Nightingale leaned back in his seat as our plates were taken away and I could see we were in for a serious conversation. I really wished I didn't have any idea what it was going to be about.

“I knew from an early age that marriage wasn't ever going to be on the cards. At Casterbrook it was drilled into us that there was duty and there was family and the two rarely mixed.”

“But there were married wizards,” I said, because I knew that much from talking to some of the old guard at the open day.

“Yes, of course. But they didn't stay long, once children were involved.” He took a long sip of his drink. “The truth is they were often overlooked for the most interesting cases and most understandably chose to explore other avenues – research, teaching.” He looked over at me. “Even if it weren't just the two of us, that's not how I would do things.” He looked away then and sighed. “I never expected to be the one in charge, having to make all the decisions by myself.”

“You're not by yourself,” I said, and he smiled a little at that and nodded to himself.

“There was someone once, before the war. We could have...but it was harder then. It was illegal for one thing.”

He was staring down at the table, fiddling with a beer mat. “Did they...die?” I asked.

Nightingale looked over at me. “Not everyone I knew before the 21st century died a horrible death,” he said and I had the decency to try and look abashed. Whether or not that worked is another matter. “We had different priorities. He wasn't a wizard,” he added, which did surprise me.

“Sorry,” I said.

“And then after the War, well you know what happened.”

Actually, I thought, I only know the truncated version, but I'm getting there.

“There was no one after you started getting younger?” I asked, because the times he's opened up like this are few and far between and I wasn't going to miss an opportunity to get some questions answered.

“There might have been,” he said, with a soft smile on his face. “But we started ageing in opposite directions, and that's not really a basis for a solid relationship. She did write to say she'd got married though.”

“She?”

“Picking one gender to the exclusion of the other has never made much sense to me,” he said. “Though naturally it's not something I advertise.”

“Course,” I said. “Nothing lately, then?”

Nightingale shifted in his seat and I could tell we were getting into the prickly end of the subject and he'd be clamming up soon. I was surprised he answered at all in fact. “Not since I took you on. Before, occasionally. For company mostly. I grew up with lots of brothers and sisters and then Casterbrook, which was never quiet. Then the Folly in its heyday, you could always find someone to talk to, or go out with. I never quite got used to the silence. Molly is very dear to me but well, not quite the same.”

“No,” I said. “Has _she_ ever...?”

“That,” he said, draining his drink, “is something you're going to have to ask her.”

Fat chance of that I thought, finishing off my own drink.

“There is something we should put on the agenda for our next meeting,” he said, a little thoughtfully.

“What's that?”

“Apprentices. Perhaps we should start looking now.”

I raised an eyebrow, because while I was in agreement with him I'd always thought he was rather dragging his heels on the subject.

“Have you got anyone in mind?”

“Since I suspect if we asked Sahra she would say no, not at the moment. But then I wasn't looking for you until I found you.”

I returned his soft smile with one of my own. “Sahra would make a scary wizard,” I said, to stop either of us having an emotional epiphany.

“I can well imagine,” Nightingale agreed, standing up, “but there is some value in having a non-wizard accompany us. Less likely to miss the obvious.”

Given some of our recent adventures, he probably had a point.

* * * * *

I picked the Folly over Beverley's that night since we'd need to hit the ground running in the morning. I was planning on giving her a call and relieving a bit of tension before bed but only got her voicemail. So I settled on not trying to think about Nightingale and sex.

Which proved a lot harder to do than was really healthy for either of us.

* * * * *

The next day Nightingale and I paid a visit to the tattoo parlour, nice and early so as to be there as the owner turned away from the Tube entrance and headed towards the door to unlock it.

“Have you ever met her?” I asked Nightingale as we crossed the road to make our introductions. “Stephanopoulos's other half?”

“Once, briefly, when she was picking Miriam up from the car park. I rather got the impression Miriam didn't want me associating with her.”

I snorted, remembering the way she and Seawoll used to act around Nightingale. We've come a long way since they both refused to even say the word magic.

“Ms Tennant?” Nightingale said, at the exact moment when she was juggling her keys and pulling up the security shutters and in no position to do a runner. “DCI Nightingale, PC Grant, Metropolitan Police. Might we have a word?”

She gave Nightingale the side-eye of a woman who'd spent a long time in care and didn't quite trust the police but didn't want to cause a scene. She gave me the side-eye of a woman who didn't think someone that looked like me should be waving a warrant card in her face.

“Can't stop you, can I?” she said, and didn't object as we followed her into the building. She flicked on lights and dumped her bag on the counter by the till.

She was a petite pale white woman with short dyed red hair and when she took her leather jacket off she revealed a long sleeve of tattoos. They weren't my kind of thing, but they could easily pass for art.

“What did you say your name was, Nightingale?” she asked.

“That's right,” Nightingale said.

Suddenly she reached under the counter and we both tensed until she pulled out what appeared to be a photo album. She flicked through it and then turned it around so we could look.

“Good grief,” Nightingale muttered and pulled the album closer. It was a black and white photo, unmistakably Nightingale, smiling at the camera next to a man that was leaning against the back of a chair. I thought I recognised the painting in the background as one still hanging in the Folly's study.

“Your grandfather?” I asked.

She nodded. “I heard you'd stopped ageing. Who are you, then?” she asked me.

“His apprentice,” I replied.

“Didn't think they let your sort in,” she said.

“They let all sorts in these days,” I replied.

“Do you know why we're here?” Nightingale asked.

“It's about the tattoos. I'll stop if I must.”

Nightingale and I looked at each other; such immediate cooperation was highly suspicious.

“James taught you magic?” Nightingale asked.

“He didn't mean to. He got a bit, funny, near the end. Telling odd stories. Told me about this case you lot dealt with, a man using tattoos to track down his enemies and bring them to justice. He still had some of the pictures the bloke drew. Guess it's what got me started on all this.” She pointed at her tattoos.

“I thought there were a few pages misses from his notes,” Nightingale said, more as an aside to me.

“So, what,” I asked, “you just decided to put magic on all your tattoos?”

“Not _all_ of them.”

I'd come prepared with photos of our two dead men and our missing one. She hesitated just a fraction too long before agreeing that she'd done their tattoos. Sheridan's was a skull and cross bones on his right shoulder.

“And you placed trackers on them? Why?”

She shrugged. “Why not?”

I turned to Nightingale but he was staring down at the old photo of himself and had retreated into his head.

“So you can track Andrew Sheridan for us then?” I asked.

“Or show us how to do it,” Nightingale said, proving that he'd been paying attention after all.

“It's a bit complicated,” she said, shifting awkwardly on the balls of her feet. I readied myself to grab her if she made a run for the back door.

“I'm sure I'll follow,” Nightingale said, drily. He too looked like he was ready to act fast.

We'd spent the hour before turning out here reading up on her background. We knew she and her brother had been shifted around care homes since their mum died of a drug overdose. Her dad came along every so often to take them back home with him but Social Services put an end to that when the police were called around to their house one too many times. She'd eventually been settled with a decent foster family, finished school and went to college, taking over the tattoo business when the previous owner retired to the South of France. And apparently during all of that she'd been taking lessons in magic from her grandfather.

“He said you were the last decent wizard left,” she said to Nightingale. Then she just deflated, and, keeping her hands visible at all times slowly went to the store room at the back and opened the door. Sitting on the ground, bound, gagged but very much alive, was Andrew Sheridan.

* * * * *

For the second time in as many days we found ourselves pushed aside by forensics. At least, I did. Nightingale had to make sure the tattoo parlour was safe in case of demon traps, though Alison Tennant insisted that she didn't even know what a demon trap was. We were inclined to believe her, but no one was taking any chances.

Sahra and I transported Alison to Belgravia nick so we could get her ready for interview. She said she didn't want a solicitor which would normally be a cause to get straight in there but Nightingale had asked me to make sure she had a cup of tea first and well, who was I to argue with my governor?

* * * * *

Stephanopoulos was leaning against Sahra's desk when we got to the office, shaking her head as she read over a file. “The missus is going to love this,” she said.

“Sorry, boss,” I said.

“Nightingale just gave the all clear so he'll be in soon. Looks like there's more than enough evidence to secure a conviction, but let's see if we can tie this all up in a nice confession shaped bow, shall we?”

“Boss.”

* * * *

Alison Tennant was still adamant that she didn't need a solicitor, so, since Nightingale was in position nearby in case we needed help, Sahra and I sat down to interview her. It turned out to be a fairly sad tale, as these things usually are.

One night almost exactly two years ago the three friends Andrew Sheridan, Benjamin Goldberg and Elliot Michaels had gone to a house party hosted by one of their old friends from King's College Hospital. One of the guests was Alison's brother Sean, a midwife at King's. They hadn't seen much of each other since being sent to separate foster families, but had remembered Christmas and the occasional birthday.

“Mum was out of her mind most of the time,” she said, “but she always said I had to look after Sean.”

“What happened at the party?” Sahra asked.

“What always happens when a bunch of drunk men find the one guy in the room who refuses all the drink and drugs on offer. They got him hooked on everything they could.”

“He never tried to get help?”

“He just started drinking. And didn't stop until he did.”

I knew someone, probably David Carey, was running down Sean Tennant's info to try and find out exactly what had happened. Andrew Sheridan could still find himself behind bars if we were very lucky.

“And the tattoos?” I asked. “How did that help?”

“I did a tattoo for this consultant at King's and she recommended me to her friends, and word got out and I sort of become the person all the doctors and nurses went to. You've seen my work, pretty good, huh?”

“You do some beautiful work,” I agreed. “And the magic?”

“It was just a trick, granddad didn't teach me anything really useful. Said he felt guilty about not looking after us. I just used it on the cute ones mostly, you know, accidentally on purpose bump into them in a bar or something and be all, hey, fancy meeting you here. But sometimes I just did it 'cause I could. Didn't even recognise them at first.”

“And why St Bride's?”

“She was the patron saint of midwives,” Alison said, with a sad smile.

“And why now?” I asked.

“Does magic do things to your brain?” she asked and Sahra and I looked at each other; we could already see where this was going. “Not got long left. Figured I may as well be able to tell Sean that I got them back, when I see him again.”

And then the tears she'd been fighting back started to flow and we agreed to suspend the interview.

* * * * *

“Do you enjoy making my life difficult?” Stephanopoulos asked me as Sahra and I walked into her office. Since Nightingale was also sat across from her I had the distinct impression that she was actually talking to him, except for the problem of him being a senior officer.

“I'll ask Dr Walid to do a full exam, but if what she says is true, she'll never make it to trial,” Nightingale said. “I don't think she's a threat to public safety right now.”

“Still, she stays in the special cells and only leaves with an escort. We'll let the CPS deal with the rest.”

“Agreed,” Nightingale said. “When does Alexander get back from his course?”

“Not bloody soon enough.”

* * * * **

Despite what had happened the last time Beverley had people around to hers, and our joint vow never to do it ever again, she decided to throw an impromptu barbecue in her back garden. The weather was turning lighter and sunnier and if we didn't do it now the barbecue would stay in its box for another year.

Beverley was in her element and since the guests comprised of Nightingale, Sahra and Dr Walid, the opportunity for anyone to be insulted or for a fight to break out was pretty slim.

Beverley and Nightingale were sat in the deckchairs talking when I came over to hand out drinks and I flopped down to the grass by Beverley's feet and leaned back against her bare legs.

“What are you two talking about?” I asked, sighing as Beverley absently rubbed at my neck.

“I believe Beverley was attempting to find me a partner,” Nightingale said, sounding amused.

“There's no reason for you not to,” Beverley said, and sounded a little defensive. Considering I'd asked her not to bring up Nightingale's private life with me, never mind him, I felt this couldn't bode well.

“I'm old enough to be the great-grandfather of half the people in the city,” he pointed out. “Not to mention most of the people in this garden.”

“Not in the demi-monde,” Beverley pointed out. Which wasn't unreasonable, given what I suspected about the identity of his past boyfriend. But I wasn't going to bring that up.

Nightingale took a long drink of his beer. “I trust your mother is keeping well,” he said and Beverly snorted while I tried to keep a straight face.

“Fine, it's none my business,” she said.

“I'm going to hold you to that,” I said to her, and turned to press a soft kiss to her leg. And make sure Nightingale wasn't too uncomfortable. Since he was looking at us both more fondly than I've seen my mum look at a envelope full of cash, I figured we were all right on that score.

“You know, you don't have to look to the humans to find your next apprentice,” she said.

“Are you volunteering?” Nightingale asked, putting voice to a truly terrifying idea that would probably lead to the destruction of the city. And possibly the known universe.

“Hell no,” she laughed. “But someone who already knows about magic would be easier to teach, wouldn't they?”

“I don't think the two naturally follow,” Nightingale replied. “Bad enough when your apprentice gets distracted all the time, having to iron out all the preconceptions someone in the demi-monde has about magic may prove the last straw.”

“Worth considering though,” I said, with a completely justified glare in his direction at the distraction comment. He smiled at me and moved his leg closer and I shifted a little so I was leaning back against him and Beverley.

“I don't think we're in a position to rule anything out,” he said.

“You three look cosy,” Dr Walid said, coming up with Sahra to join us. “Should we be worried?”

Beverley and Nightingale looked over at each other and then clinked their beer bottles together. “Always,” they both said, grinning.

Dr Walid and Sahra looked bemused, but I felt something slowly uncurl in my gut as they sat down on the grass and joined us, with the river lapping gently at the shore, and Beverley's hand finding mine. Home wasn't the Folly, or Beverley's house, or my parent's house. Home was wherever I needed it to be.


End file.
